This consideration made him decide to change horses at the little village of Emborrow, lying at the foot of the Mendips, rather than at Old Down Inn, which, lying twelve miles beyond Bath, was the usual stage. By the time they had reached this place, the moon was coming up brightly, and the going was consequently easier.
The chaise pulled up in the small yard belonging to the one hostelry of any size, and an ostler shouted for the first turnout. At the same moment, one of the windows of the chaise was let down, and Hero looked out, her eyes dancing in the mingled lantern and moonlight, her lips parted in a roguish smile. “Of all the absurd, delightful starts!” she began, her voice quivering with amusement. Then she broke offshort as her gaze encountered, not Sherry’s beloved features, but Mr Tarleton’s wholly unexciting countenance. A look of startled dismay entered her face; the colour receded from her cheeks; she uttered, in repulsive accents, one word only: “ You!”
Mr Tarleton had been prepared for maidenly indignation, but not for this, and he was slightly staggered. He stepped up to the chaise and said, looking up at the blanched face at the window: “But, my sweet love, whom else should it be?”
“Oh!” wailed Hero, her face puckering like a baby’s. “Oh! I thought you w-were S-Sherry!”
Mr Tarleton’s brain reeled. “Thought I was whom?” he said numbly.
“M-my husband!” wept Hero, tears rolling one after the other down her cheeks. “Oh, how could you play such a c-cruel trick on me?”
If the floor had heaved under Sherry’s feet, the universe fairly rocked about the unfortunate Mr Tarleton. For a moment he could only gaze up at Hero in uncomprehending amazement. He repeated in bemused accents: “Your husband?”
Only heartbroken sobs answered him. He became aware of a postboy at his elbow, and pulled himself together with an effort. “I beg of you, ma’am — ! Pray, do not — ! Here, you, what’s the figure?”
The postboy who had driven the chaise from Bath told him eighteen shillings, reckoning the hire of the chaise-and-pair at the rate of one and sixpence a mile, and Mr Tarleton, anxious to be rid of him, dived a hand into his pocket. It was then that he discovered that not only his purse, but his wallet also, was missing, and that all the loose cash he carried in the pockets of his breeches amounted only to six shillings and ninepence. Never was an eloping gentleman in a worse predicament! Never had he expected to regret with such bitterness having hired his coach from an inn where his name was unknown! One glance at the postboy’s face was sufficient to inform him that he would not be permitted, without a most unseemly brawl, to travel upon tick. He was not even known at the inn. There was nothing for it but to turn to his weeping victim, and as he did it his sense of the ridiculous threatened to overcome more poignant emotions.
“My dear, pray do not cry so! I promise you I will set all to rights! The only thing is — Miss Wantage. it is the most absurd of predicaments to find oneself in, but I have been robbed of my purse, and here is this fellow expecting to be paid for his services. Are you able to lend me a guinea?”